If only I’d known how it would turn out…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver cursing as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the oncoming lane at times. Few passengers rode at this hour—it was a working day, after all.
Oliver gazed out the window at the grimy, half-melted snow. Soon it would be gone entirely, and then summer would be just around the corner. The bus hit another bump, and the driver let out another colourful swear.
“At this rate, we’ll lose the wheels.”
Finally, the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence came into view, the rows of headstones standing dark against the dull sky.
Every time he came here, Oliver was weighed down by a sense of grim inevitability—the fleeting nature of life. The thought that one day he too would rest here was unbearable. He didn’t visit out of grief or longing, but out of duty. It was expected—paying respects on certain dates. A twinge of guilt pricked at him, and he exhaled sharply.
The bus stopped at the cemetery gates. The doors hissed open, and passengers spilled out, stretching their legs. Most headed straight for the stalls of artificial flowers lining the fence. Oliver lingered, scanning for fresh blooms. The garish plastic petals, shiny with varnish, made his eyes ache. At the end of the row, an elderly woman stood beside a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four and stepped through the gates. The paths were slick with puddles. He picked his way carefully, but even the snowdrifts squelched underfoot. He regretted wearing his old winter boots too late.
Nearing the treeline, he turned left. He found his wife’s grave by the wooden cross. *Time for a headstone. Or maybe wait—let our son arrange one for us both later?* The temporary crosses around hers had long since been replaced. He eyed the expanding rows of the dead. So many new graves since last autumn.
He stepped over the low iron border and stamped down the slush, wincing as the wetness seeped through.
“Hello, Emily.”
From the faded photograph nestled against the cross, his wife smiled back. He loved that picture. It was how he remembered her, though she’d been only thirty-six when it was taken.
He could still recall her birthday that year—sneaking out at dawn for flowers, returning to find her awake and dressed in a new frock. He’d given her gold earrings. She’d put them on immediately, beaming, and he’d captured that moment. Like it was yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” Oliver hesitated, deciding where to place the carnations.
The grave was already covered in artificial blooms, their colours unbleached by time, as if they’d been placed yesterday.
He bent down, pulled a cluster of yellowed silk flowers from the snow near the cross, and tucked them in at the foot of the grave. He wedged the carnations in their place. The frozen earth wouldn’t give way to the fragile stems, and the snow would melt soon anyway—they’d topple. They looked humble beside the gaudy plastic, but they were real.
“I miss you. But I can’t come here often. Forgive me—don’t be angry. I should be the one lying here, not you. But life doesn’t play fair…”
He talked for a long time, sharing news, staring at the portrait until his feet went numb. Now and then, the caw of crows shattered the silence, deepening the loneliness.
“I’d better go, love. Wore these old boots—now my feet are soaked. And no one to scold me anymore. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s drier. I’ll tidy things up, bring a new photo—just like this one. You’re too beautiful here. Forgive me.” He sighed, stepped over the railings, and walked away without looking back.
A handful of people waited at the bus stop. When he finally boarded, he could barely feel his toes.
At home, he peeled off the soaked boots and socks, put the kettle on, and gulped two steaming mugs of honeyed tea. Pulling on dry wool socks, he turned on the telly and slumped onto the sofa. Some old film was playing. The tea made him drowsy…
***
Molly had joined their construction crew fresh from college—bright-eyed, freckled, with a smile like spring sunshine breaking through clouds. Oliver couldn’t help but watch her. He had a wife, a son in primary school—yet he was drawn to the girl. What was he to do when she kept appearing in his path? Ignore her?
One evening, just before Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Molly huddled into her coat collar, streetlamp glow flickering in her wide eyes. Oliver stole glances. When the bus arrived, he nudged past others to sit beside her.
“Evening, Molly. Heading home?” he asked, just to speak.
“Yes. You?”
“Same.” A pause. “Tree up yet?”
“No. Dad always got a real one. It’d lie on the balcony ‘til the thirtieth, then we’d decorate it together. The smell—like instant Christmas.”
“Today *is* the thirtieth. Got a pine on your balcony?”
Her laugh was light and bright. He was mesmerised.
“My parents live far. I’ve got a fake one. I’ll dig it out tonight, hang sweets like Mum used to. Tea and tree-gazing after.” She laughed again.
Oliver pictured it—the cosy flat, the tree, Molly stretching to place a bauble, the kettle whistling in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
“What for?”
“Help decorate. Share that tea.” He flushed at his boldness. What must she think? He hurried on: “The way you said it—tea, the tree… My wife and son put ours up weeks ago. Came home, and there it was. Feels too familiar now. I miss the spark, the proper Christmas feeling.”
“Alright then,” she said simply, meeting his gaze.
At her flat, he assembled the tree, and they decked it with baubles and tinsel, laughing, bumping elbows. It felt like they’d known each other forever. He sensed she felt it too. Then tea… and he left, though every fibre willed him to stay.
On New Year’s Eve, he returned. He couldn’t recall the lie he’d told Emily—no, he remembered perfectly, the way she’d looked at him as if she knew. But he was powerless, sucked into Molly’s orbit, resisting nothing, wanting nothing else.
He began dropping by often. Molly never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sorrow in her eyes—the same sorrow he saw in Emily’s when he came home.
One evening, resolved to confess, he marched home ready to face the storm. He couldn’t live the lie anymore. Emily would cry, rage—fine. Just don’t take his son away. He opened the door—and she rushed to him in tears.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, startled. Had she found out? Maybe it was for the best.
But Emily said his mother was in hospital—critical. Suddenly, confessions didn’t matter.
Later, they took his mother in—she couldn’t live alone. Emily agreed without hesitation, though she knew the burden would fall on her. Now Oliver couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon his mother to her. They hired a carer—until Emily came home early one day and caught her drunk. Fired on the spot.
No more risks. Emily quit her job to care for the old woman herself.
Oliver went to Molly to say goodbye. Apologised for leading her on, for not wanting to ruin her life—or abandon his wife and mother. “You’re young. You should marry, have children. Not waste time on a married man.”
In the hallway, Molly pressed against him. They stood like that a long while before she pushed him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself for a coward. At work, they nodded stiffly, avoiding eye contact. Then one day, he saw her with a young intern—bespectacled, handsome. Jealousy nearly tore him apart. He walked around in a daze. Soon after, Molly married the glasses-wearing lad.
His mother died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Emily rested a month before returning to work—only for a medical check-up to reveal a tumour. Then the whirlwind: surgery, chemo, more surgery, more chemo…
Once, at the bus stop, he ran into Molly.
“You look awful. Just tired, or is it bad?” she asked, worried.
“My mother first, now my wife. I deserve it. That day I meant to leave Emily—the *same* day Mum fell ill. Buried her, then Emily… God punished me for loving you, for trying to leave.”
Molly paled.
“Then He punished me too,” she whispered.
“Why you?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband wanted them. He left me.” She turned away.
“Sorry,”He turned away from the window, the weight of his choices pressing down like the endless night outside, knowing some regrets never fade, and some wounds never truly heal.
